Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Logan stood at the front of the classroom like a man facing a firing squad.

There were thirty seats in the room. Thirty desks, thirty chairs, a giant whiteboard, a projector blinking at him like it wanted a fight, and a folder full of printed lesson plans that had already suffered two crumples and one passive-aggressive sigh.

He squinted at the neatly labeled binder Scott had left on the desk.

Secondary-Level Mutant Ethics & Global Politics – Week 4: 'Post-Registration Diplomacy in the UN'
Instructor: Scott Summers
Substitute: Logan(?)

The question mark pissed him off.

"What the f- hell is 'post-registration diplomacy'?" Logan muttered, flipping through a few pages of aggressively highlighted notes and bulleted vocabulary lists. "Didn't even have a post office in half the places I grew up. What, they want me to talk about the United Nations?"

A syllabus fell out. He stared at it like it was written in ancient Martian.

Learning Objectives:
• Students will be able to identify major international players in mutant rights diplomacy.
• Students will demonstrate understanding of recent mutant legislation through debate and analysis.
• Students will develop critical discussion skills surrounding moral responsibility, pacifism, and state power.

Logan let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a growl. "What the hell kind of sentence is that?"

He tossed the folder back on the desk and looked around the classroom like it might attack him. For a guy who'd wrestled with mutants and walked away from artillery blasts, the idea of standing here and teaching felt like cruel and unusual punishment.

The bell rang.

"God help me," Logan muttered, then louder- "Alright, brats. In. Sit down. Shut up."

They filed in, loud and aimless, like a pack of sleepy raccoons. Bobby took the far seat and tried to high-five someone mid-yawn. Rogue sat closer to the front, dark hair hanging low, face already skeptical.

Someone whispered, "Thought it was supposed to be Professor Summers."

"He got called out," Logan said flatly. "You get me."

He turned toward the whiteboard and stared at it like it owed him money.

A long silence stretched behind him. He could feel the confusion starting to bloom in the room.

"What're we doing?" Bobby asked. "I didn't do the reading."

"Don't matter," Logan said. "Not teaching it."

He grabbed the marker. It squeaked violently against the board as he scrawled in capital letters:

S U R V I V A L

He turned back around.

"New plan. I don't know what mutant ethics diplomacy is, and frankly, I don't give a damn. What I do know is how to not get killed, how to track a target, and how to gut a man before he guts you."

Silence.

Rogue blinked slowly. Bobby's mouth opened and closed like he was buffering.

Logan pointed toward the window.

"You think you're safe in here. Mansion walls, force fields, emergency lockdown systems. That's sweet. But out there?" He jabbed a claw toward the forest. "Out there, the world don't care if you've got a GPA. It cares if you know how to run, hide, fight, or stay alive long enough to call backup."

"Uh," Bobby raised a cautious hand, "isn't this, like... history class?"

"It is now," Logan said. "My history."

Another silence.

Rogue cracked a smile.

Logan saw it, narrowed his eyes, and gave her a nod. "You get it. You've been out there. You know what it's like."

She just shrugged. "Ain't my first time surviving something ugly."

"Exactly."

He walked to the centre of the room, boots heavy on the tile, and crossed his arms.

"By the end of this week, you'll know how to track a moving target, build a fire with nothing but junk, identify which plants'll kill you, and how to break out of zip-ties using your shoelaces. You don't like it, you can go cry to Summers."

Bobby raised his hand again. "Can we still cry to Jean?"

"No."

Logan looked over the room: teenagers now sitting straighter, unsure if this was a joke or a military draft. A few leaned forward. One kid was already scribbling notes like he was preparing for war.

Maybe, Logan thought, he could actually teach these kids something that mattered.

Even if it sure as fuck wasn't on the syllabus.

Scott Summers paced down the polished corridor with military precision, boots clicking sharply, jaw clenched like a man walking into a war room instead of the Headmaster's office. He had just passed by Classroom C2 where he distinctly heard Logan telling the students how to "gut a fish using only a belt buckle and spite."

Scott didn't even want to know the context.

He knocked once- firm, controlled- and then entered before Charles could finish saying, "Come in."

Charles looked up from behind his desk, hands folded, already weary.

"Let me guess," he said. "Logan."

Scott didn't sit. "He threw out my curriculum."

Charles gave the smallest of nods, the kind that said, Yes, I know, and I'm about to make your day worse.

"He didn't just deviate, Charles," Scott pressed. "He wrote the word 'survival' in giant letters on the whiteboard and started talking about tracking people. Tracking. In History class."

"Yes, I saw," Charles said. "I believe he also mentioned water purification and knot-tying."

Scott blinked. "This is a school."

Charles leaned back slightly in his wheelchair. "It's also a sanctuary. And a battlefield."

"He's turning it into a military camp."

"And you're turning it into a Model UN," Charles said mildly. "Both approaches have merit."

Scott opened his mouth, then closed it. This was not going as expected.

"You gave him my class, Charles."

"I did."

"I left clear lesson plans."

"And he chose not to use them. He's improvising."

Scott threw his hands up, pacing again. "Improvising isn't teaching. It's chaos in a leather jacket."

"He's giving the students something only he can offer," Charles said. "Perspective. And for what it's worth, the students seem engaged."

"Oh, they're engaged, alright," Scott muttered. "One of them tried to ask him if they still had homework, and he handed them a hunting knife."

Charles raised an eyebrow.

Scott raised both hands. "Okay, maybe it was a butter knife, but still- !"

There was a beat of silence.

Then Charles spoke carefully. "Scott. Do you remember your first field mission?"

Scott frowned. "Of course I do."

"You were seventeen. It was a simple mutant extraction. You spent the night freezing in a ditch because you didn't know how to build a shelter."

Scott's mouth snapped shut.

Charles leaned forward, tone gentler now. "Logan is unorthodox. But these students don't just need structure. They need resilience. Instinct. The kind of grit that can't be graded."

Scott exhaled through his nose, slow and tight. "This still isn't the way to teach diplomacy."

"No," Charles agreed. "But it is a way to teach survival. Let him have the week. You might learn something, too."

Scott stared at him. "You planned this, didn't you?"

Charles gave the barest hint of a smile. "I planned nothing. I merely observed."

Scott left the office muttering under his breath.

Charles waited until the door clicked shut, then turned toward the window with a private little smile.

Outside, across the yard, Logan was already leading the class into the treeline- Rogue at his side, Bobby trailing behind him, someone hauling a backpack, someone else clearly regretting their shoe choice.

A butter knife gleamed in someone's pocket.

The forest behind the mansion was dense, humid, and quiet—except for the distant, relentless complaints of teenagers.

"Why are we outside?" Bobby Drake whined, stepping over a fallen log like it had personally offended him. "It's humid. I'm dying. This is where ticks live."

"You'll live," Logan said, stomping through the underbrush with no regard for spiderwebs, mud, or the very annoyed student body trailing behind him. "Maybe."

"Is this... gym class?" someone asked, breathless.

"Nope," Logan called over his shoulder. "This is not dying class."

Rogue snorted quietly, pulling her jacket tighter around her arms. "You could've just let us nap in the library, y'know. Would've been kinder."

"Kindness gets you killed," Logan said. "So does comfort. You think a Sentinel's gonna let you finish your nap before blasting a hole through the floor? No? Then shut it."

Bobby raised his hand. "If we get attacked by anything out here, I just wanna say—this is not in my top five ways to die. Not even top ten."

"Good. You're already thinking about it. That's step one."

Logan stopped abruptly in a small clearing. The sunlight filtered through the trees in slashes of gold, hitting patches of moss and dead leaves. He turned on his heel and faced the class with arms crossed.

"Lesson one," he barked. "You're in unknown territory. You have nothing on you. You don't know where your enemy is. What's the first thing you do?"

A pause.

Rogue raised an eyebrow. "Panic?"

"No," Logan said. "You observe. You shut up, you breathe, and you look. You feel the space."

He pointed to the ground.

"What colour's the moss?"

"...Green?" Bobby guessed.

Logan pointed to the west. "Where's the sun?"

"Up?" someone mumbled.

"What birds do you hear?"

"...Birds?" another voice offered. "Is that not a squirrel?"

Logan sighed.

"Congratulations. Half of you would already be dead. The other half would be lost, confused, or on fire."

Rogue smirked. "So, business as usual."

Logan turned to her, actually amused for the first time that day. "Not bad, kid."

"I ain't a kid."

"Didn't say you acted like one."

Rogue blinked, caught off guard- but she didn't hate it. Something about Logan's bluntness was easier to handle than Scott's lectures or Jean's gentle pity.

Logan crouched and drew a rough shape in the dirt with a stick. "Right. Since none of you know how to shut up and listen to the forest, we'll make do. You're gonna learn how to set up a shelter using only what's around you. Leaves, branches, maybe a stick or two if you're lucky. I want two teams. Marie, you take that side. Bobby, you're over there. Don't stab each other with sticks."

Bobby raised his hand. "Can we use powers?"

Logan gave him a look. "Can you ask a bear politely not to eat you?"

"...No?"

"Then no."

The group scattered with groans and complaints, gathering sticks and arguing about leaf insulation and structural integrity as if they were on some mutant version of Survivor.

Rogue didn't move right away. She stood next to Logan, watching him as he surveyed the kids with arms folded.

"Seriously," she asked, "Why are you actually doing this?"

Logan shrugged. "Figured if the world's gonna burn, they should know how to keep themselves warm in it."

There was a beat of silence. Wind through the trees.

Then Rogue said, softly, "You ever teach survival before?"

Logan gave her a sideways glance. "You mean officially?"

She nodded.

"Nope."

"...And unofficially?"

He smirked. "A few times. Most of them lived."

Rogue snorted again, this time with real laughter.

Logan looked out at the kids arguing about whether a branch was "structurally sound." One tried to tie leaves together with shoelaces. Another accidentally snapped their "roof" in half.

"This is gonna be a long week," he muttered.

"Yup," Rogue said. "But, hey- you didn't stab anyone yet. I call that growth."

Logan cracked a smile. "Don't tempt me."

The makeshift shelter was... technically standing.

One end drooped lower than the other, and the leafy roof had collapsed twice already, but Team Rogue had stubbornly declared it "good enough" after stuffing the gaps with moss.

Team Bobby's, meanwhile, had collapsed so hard it looked like someone had lost a wrestling match with a tree.

"I'm not saying it's bad," Bobby offered, "I'm just saying if you sneeze near it, we all die of exposure."

"That's exactly saying it's bad," Rogue said, hands on her hips.

"Alright," Logan called from his perch on a tree stump. "Time's up. Let's see who gets eaten by wolves first."

The students gathered, sweaty, muddy, and thoroughly unimpressed with nature.

Logan walked over to Bobby's team and gave the shelter a long, unimpressed look. He poked a branch with the toe of his boot. It snapped in half like overcooked spaghetti.

"Congratulations," he muttered. "You built a coffin."

"Hey, it's eco-friendly," Bobby said.

Rogue laughed, until a sharp yelp cut through the clearing.

Everyone turned.

Near the base of the hill, a younger student named Leo was sitting on the ground, wincing and holding his leg. His foot had slipped out on the slope during the final scramble, and he'd slid halfway down before landing hard on a rock.

"Damn it- ow, ow- "

Logan was there before anyone else moved.

"Easy," he said, kneeling beside the kid. "Let me see."

Leo froze.

Logan's voice wasn't loud. It wasn't gruff. It was quiet- steady in a way that made people listen without realizing they were doing it. His expression had gone from steel to something softer, focused.

Leo shifted nervously. "I'm fine. I mean- probably. Maybe. It just- kinda hurts."

Logan rolled up the kid's trouser leg with practiced hands. There was a scrape running down the shin, already red and dirty with grit. Nothing broken, but bleeding enough to sting.

"You're alright," Logan said. "Just a cut. You'll live."

Then, to everyone's surprise, he pulled out a clean cloth from god knows where and poured water from his canteen over it. He cleaned the wound with careful, steady pressure, then wrapped it neatly with a long strip of gauze from a small first aid kit tucked in his coat.

The students stared like they were seeing a lion gently bandage a rabbit.

Logan caught the look and raised an eyebrow without glancing up.

"What? You thought I dragged you into the woods without a med kit?"

No one answered.

"I get hurt more than all of you combined," he added, tightening the bandage. "Figured I'd get good at patching people up. Even the loud ones."

Bobby opened his mouth to respond, but thought better of it.

Logan stood, offering a hand. Leo took it- hesitant at first, then grateful.

"Thanks," he mumbled. "Didn't think you were, uh..."

"Capable of human emotion?" Logan deadpanned.

Leo blushed. "Kinda, yeah."

Logan smirked. "Stick around."

The students exchanged glances- some confused, some quietly impressed. Rogue caught Logan's eye from across the clearing and gave him a subtle nod. He returned it.

And just like that, something shifted. Nothing loud. Nothing dramatic.

But the kids stood a little closer to him on the walk back. Bobby cracked a joke and wasn't immediately told to shut up. Rogue walked at Logan's side, not behind him.

And the next time Logan gave an order, no one hesitated.

The clearing was quieter now.

Most of the kids were lounging under their crooked leaf huts like they'd just survived a week-long expedition, not even a few hours in the woods behind the mansion. Bobby had used his powers to make an ice cube and was pressing it dramatically to his forehead. Rogue had commandeered a fallen log as a throne.

Logan sat on a rock sharpening one of his throwing knives, humming low and tuneless to himself.

And that was the exact moment Ororo dropped silently from the sky, landing with a graceful crunch of boots on dirt and a gust of displaced air.

Every head snapped up.

"Okay," she said, scanning the scene like a general arriving at the aftermath of a small but chaotic battle. "What... am I looking at?"

Logan didn't look up. "Class."

"...Class."

"Survival class," Bobby added helpfully, sitting up with the ice still stuck to his forehead.

"I was out scouting storm paths," Ororo said slowly, eyes narrowing. "I come back to find half the students missing and a note on the blackboard that says 'gone to woods- L.' No context. No warning."

Logan shrugged. "That's context."

"It is not context."

Rogue lifted a hand. "We're fine. He didn't even stab anyone."

"Yet," Bobby muttered. Rogue elbowed him.

Ororo gave Logan a look that could've shattered mountains. "You're supposed to be substituting politics. You were given a full curriculum."

"Yeah," Logan said, sheathing the knife and standing. "I saw. Decided it was shit."

Ororo's eyes narrowed. A breeze shifted around her, curling through the clearing like a warning.

Before she could unleash a full lecture, Leo- still seated with his bandaged leg- cleared his throat.

"It's actually been... kinda good."

Ororo turned, startled. "You got hurt?"

"Just a scrape," Leo said quickly. "He patched it. Was really careful."

Ororo blinked. "He... was?"

Rogue leaned forward. "Yeah. Like, shockingly gentle. Didn't growl or nothing."

"I heard a growl," Bobby whispered.

"He was growling at you," Rogue snapped.

Ororo blinked again, looking genuinely thrown off her rhythm. She studied the kids- muddy, tired, but alive and even... slightly proud of themselves?

"Look," Bobby said, waving vaguely at the janky leaf shelter, "We built this. We failed miserably. But we learned stuff. Real stuff."

"And how to use shoelaces as rope," another kid offered.

"And how to stay warm if you get stranded."

"And what poison ivy looks like!"

"And how not to panic."

The students looked between each other, nodding more now, the energy shifting from joking to something almost serious.

"He's kinda terrifying," Leo admitted, "But also... not, once you get used to it."

Ororo turned to Logan.

He didn't say anything, just crossed his arms and waited for the inevitable "You're reckless" or "This is highly inappropriate" or "You've traumatised the children."

But it didn't come.

Instead, Ororo tilted her head and said quietly, "You remembered to pack a med kit?"

He gave her a dry look. "Course I did."

"...Well. That's new."

"Not that new."

The wind died down. Ororo exhaled and looked at the shelters again- sloppy but standing. The students, sweaty and scraped and weirdly bonded. Logan, silent and unreadable as ever, but here. Present.

She stepped closer and leaned in just enough to murmur, "You know Charles is letting you do this because he's hoping it'll soften you."

"Not interested in soft," Logan muttered.

"I can see that." A pause. "But maybe they are."

Ororo turned to the students. "Alright. Finish up. Twenty minutes until dinner, and no one's tracking mud through my hallways."

Groans and protests erupted as kids began dismantling shelters, collecting bags and boots and Bobby's half-melted ice cubes. Rogue walked beside Logan as they started back through the trees.

"She thought you were gonna murder us," she said, smirking.

Logan didn't respond right away. Then- 

"Yeah," he muttered. "I get that a lot."

Chapter Text

The kitchen was dimly lit, warm with the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft clink of mugs on ceramic. The students were either passed out in their rooms or slouched around the rec room in quiet clusters, half-watching old movies or muttering about leaf huts and blisters.

Logan leaned against the counter near the sink, nursing a cup of coffee that had probably gone cold hours ago. His boots were muddy, jacket tossed over a stool. He looked tired, but not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. The kind that settles in deep and stays.

Scott sat stiffly at the table, arms folded. Jean leaned against the island, sipping tea, eyes half-lidded but listening. Ororo stood near the back door, gaze occasionally flicking to the woods outside like she was still thinking about earlier.

No one spoke for a while.

Then Logan broke the silence.

"I didn't understand a fuckin' word of that lesson plan."

Jean looked up.

Scott frowned. "You mean the curriculum packet?"

Logan gave a flat look. "Yeah. That novel you left on the desk."

"I colour-coded it."

"Thought it was a joke."

Jean stifled a laugh. Ororo didn't.

"I'm serious," Logan went on, more to the air than to any of them. "I opened it up and it was all talk about registration laws and international politics and diplomatic frameworks. Hell, most of those words didn't even exist when I was a kid. None of that shit did."

He shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Y'know what existed when I was growing up? War. Cold winters. Hunger. Losing people. You didn't need to know how to debate a bill. You needed to know how to keep your fire going when the snow came early. How to stitch up a wound with a sewing needle. How to keep your head down when bullets were flying."

Scott looked at him, cautious. "So you thought... teaching them survival was the answer?"

"It's not an answer," Logan said. "It's the only thing I know for sure."

That silenced the room for a beat.

Logan exhaled through his nose, jaw tight. "I don't know how to explain the politics of mutant rights in Geneva, but I know how to keep a kid alive when everything's gone to shit. That's gotta count for somethin'."

"It does," Ororo said, her voice low and steady.

Jean set her tea down gently. "I know you think you're out of place here, but you're not. These kids don't just need theory. They need reality. And today, you gave them a piece of that."

Scott was quiet. Then, reluctantly: "They... did seem weirdly proud of that moss hut."

Logan smirked faintly. "It was awful. Would've collapsed in ten minutes during a real storm."

"They said you helped one of them when he got hurt," Jean said, glancing over. "Leo. He wouldn't stop talking about it to the others."

Logan blinked at that, expression unreadable. "Wasn't a big deal."

"It was to him," Ororo said. "You scared them at first. Now they're curious. That's how it starts."

Logan didn't respond right away. He took another sip of his coffee- lukewarm at best.

"I ain't a teacher," he said at last. "Not really."

"You don't have to be," Jean said softly. "You're a guide."

Logan gave a rough, dry laugh. "That's a fancy word for someone who got lost a lot."

"Exactly," Jean said, smiling now. "Who better to show them the way?"

Another long pause.

Then Logan reached for the pot, poured himself another half-inch of bad coffee, and muttered, "Still not reading that syllabus."

Ororo smiled. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Scott just shook his head, he didn't say anything- but he didn't move away either.

And for a moment, the kitchen was quiet again. Peaceful. Like maybe this strange little house full of trauma, politics, and overgrown teenagers had just enough room in it for an old soldier who didn't know the rules- but could keep them alive long enough to figure them out.

The Danger Room hummed to life like a sleeping beast.

Metal walls shimmered, lights clicked overhead, and the simulation slowly came together: a war-torn village in a frozen, smoke-hazed valley. Collapsed buildings, burning debris, and fractured roads twisted into jagged paths. The ground glistened with frost.

Bobby muttered, "I thought we were gonna do more shelter stuff."

"Nope," Logan said, pulling on his combat gloves. "This ain't arts and crafts day."

The students shifted uncertainly. Leo, still limping slightly, looked at the rubble ahead like it might bite.

Scott stood up on the raised control platform behind glass, arms folded, jaw set in stone. He'd insisted on supervising this one- "for safety"- though everyone knew it was just to keep Logan in check.

Logan called up to him. "Start the sim."

Scott's voice crackled through the overhead speakers. "You haven't explained the objective."

Logan raised a hand to the students. "Objective: Don't die."

"Logan," Scott said warningly.

"You're watchin'," Logan snapped. "They'll be fine."

He turned back to the group. "Right. You're being hunted. One of you has been injured. One of you is unconscious. And one of you's lost their powers. I'm not telling you who."

A pause.

Rogue frowned. "Wait, what- ?"

The environment snapped fully online.

Snow began falling. Gunfire echoed in the distance. Red target drones buzzed overhead like vultures, scanning for movement. A low explosion shook the far side of the village.

"Go," Logan said simply.

The students scattered.

They ducked behind walls, leapt over collapsed beams, crawled through snow and smoke. Bobby tried to freeze a drone and got clipped in the shoulder with a stun pulse. Rogue pulled him behind a rusted truck. Leo called out that he couldn't feel his powers. Another student- Jamie- was playing unconscious, slumped against a wall.

Scott watched, tense.

"These conditions are too high for their level," he said into the comms. "Logan, pull it back. You've got unshielded debris and no med failsafe activated- "

"Good," Logan said.

Scott's voice tightened. "That's not a positive."

"They don't get a failsafe out there," Logan growled. "Neither did I."

A metal drone dove at Rogue. She ducked. Bobby launched a blast and missed, but Leo tackled the thing and stabbed it with a piece of piping. The students were improvising. Sloppy, but creative.

Scott reached toward the override.

Logan heard it in the control room- or maybe just sensed it- and looked up, eyes sharp and feral.

"I'm serious, One-Eye," he growled. "Touch that override again and I'll gut you."

The room went silent for half a breath- even through the gunfire.

Scott froze at the console.

Logan didn't break eye contact with the control booth. Not for a second.

Then, calmly- almost too calmly- he turned back to the field.

"Rogue! What's the rule when your ally's unconscious and the evac point's two klicks uphill?"

"Leave no one behind," she shouted.

"Correct. Show me."

Rogue worked fast. Bobby laid down a spray of ice to slow the drones while the other two dragged Jamie toward the simulated evac point- a flickering holographic beacon in the snow-covered hills.

They were exhausted. Outnumbered. Banged up.

And they were making it.

By the time they reached the beacon, panting and bruised, the sim cut with a final bzzt, leaving them in silence and the still hum of the Danger Room's neutral setting.

Logan crossed the floor toward them as they sat, recovering.

"Debrief," he said. "What went wrong?"

"Bobby missed the drone," Rogue offered.

"Not his fault," Logan said. "Your angle was off. You exposed his left. You want a clean shot, cover the shooter."

Scott stared down from the booth. Quiet now.

Leo raised a hand. "Did we actually do okay?"

Logan considered it. "You survived. That's not nothing."

He turned and walked to the edge of the room.

"You keep this up, maybe next time it's not a simulation."

He didn't look up at Scott. But Scott didn't move. Didn't press the override again.

Because in that moment, watching the kids sit in the simulated rubble and learn, he realised: Logan wasn't running a class.

He was building soldiers.

Or maybe- survivors.

And as much as Scott hated it... maybe that's what they needed.

The classroom was empty.

No boots stomped across the tile. No gruff bark telling them to shut up. No sarcastic insults. No scent of coffee and leather and whatever kind of cologne Logan claimed wasn't cologne.

Just silence.

Rogue walked in first, expecting to see him already slouched against the desk or scribbling something vaguely threatening on the board. Instead, she found only a folded piece of paper taped there.

Bobby entered behind her, chewing on a granola bar. "Where is he?"

Rogue pointed.

Bobby read aloud: "'Class cancelled- Don't die whilst I'm gone'" ...well, that's comforting."

A few more students filtered in and clustered around the board.

"Is he always vague like that?" One muttered.

"Always," Rogue said, but her eyes hadn't left the note.

She didn't know why, but something felt... off. Logan didn't skip things. Not unless he had a damn good reason. He wasn't like the other teachers, who might send a message through Jean or Hank. Logan showed up. Rain, snow, bruised, bleeding, snarling- he showed up.

And now he was just... gone.

The air was sharp with cold, laced with blood and gunpowder.

Snow crunched beneath Logan's boots as he stumbled through the shattered remnants of a mercenary compound. Smoke curled from ruptured generators and twisted steel. The intel had been wrong- way wrong. This wasn't a data raid. It was an ambush.

There were bodies everywhere.

Some of them still moved.

Logan's claws retracted with a sickening shhk. His hands were shaking, bloodied to the wrist. His healing factor was working, but slow. Too slow.

He crouched behind a burnt-out ATV, chest heaving, eyes scanning the treeline.

A sniper round had punched through his shoulder twenty minutes ago. Another clipped his side. The metal was still lodged in there, interfering with his body's ability to patch itself. He'd dug half of it out with a combat knife. The rest? Still burning.

Pain radiated down his arm like fire in his veins. His vision blurred.

He growled, low and unsteady, as he pressed a torn scrap of cloth to the gaping wound along his ribs.

Where the fuck was extraction?

His comm had shorted out when he'd taken the hit- or maybe in the explosion before that. Hard to remember. Time was warping. The blood loss made it worse.

He fell to one knee.

His breathing hitched. That scared him more than he'd admit. He didn't breathe like this. Not anymore. Not since the early years, when bullets stuck longer and cold crept in faster.

For the first time in years... the pain didn't feel temporary.

Back at the mansion, the students were gathered in the rec room. No class. No Logan.

Bobby was tossing a tennis ball off the wall, again and again.

"I'm just saying," he said, "Shouldn't he be back by now?"

Marie sat in the corner, arms crossed, jaw tight. She hadn't said much.

"He probably ran into trouble," Leo offered. "It's Logan. Trouble finds him."

"Yeah, and he usually walks out of it," Bobby said. "But it's almost five."

They fell into silence.

Then someone said, quietly, "What if he's hurt?"

No one had an answer.

Rogue got up without a word and walked out.

She headed for the main hallway, where Jean had just stepped out of the elevator, a worn look on her face.

Rogue didn't need to ask.

Jean nodded slightly. "He's en route. Took a hit. They're bringing him back now."

Rogue's throat tightened. "Is he okay?"

Jean hesitated.

"He's alive."

But that wasn't what Rogue had asked.

The hallway lights were dim at night.

Rogue crept barefoot across the cold tile, arms wrapped around herself for warmth, heart thudding in her ears. She wasn't technically supposed to be here- Jean had told them to stay out of the med wing, but she had never been great at rules. Especially not when she was scared.

She pressed her hand to the med bay door. It opened with a soft hiss.

The room inside smelled of antiseptic and blood. Machines hummed low around the bed.

And there was Logan.

Laid out like a statue half-carved from war, shirtless, chest wrapped in thick white gauze that was already spotted through with dark red. His shoulder was bandaged, one arm strapped down to keep him from tearing his stitches in his sleep- not that he looked like he was sleeping. He looked... unconscious. Still. And pale.

He was never pale.

Rogue hovered by the doorway, suddenly unsure if she should've come at all.

Then- 

"You gonna stand there starin' all night, or come say somethin'?" His voice was rough, low, like gravel rolling down a hill.

Rogue startled. "You're awake?"

"Kind of," he muttered, blinking slowly as he turned his head toward her. "Mostly wish I wasn't."

She stepped in hesitantly. "Professor Grey said you got hit pretty bad."

"Understatement," he rasped.

"You don't... usually stay down like this."

"Yeah, well." He winced as he shifted his leg. "They caught me with adamantium-piercing rounds. Guess even science finally figured out how to shut me up."

Despite herself, she smiled a little.

"I was worried," she admitted. "We all were."

He opened one eye to look at her, surprisingly soft. "You were?"

She nodded.

"You're kinda terrifying," she said, "but in a 'you'll stab me to save me' sort of way. I think that's growing on people."

Logan let out a huff of air- almost a laugh, though it ended in a pained grunt.

"Yeah, well. I don't exactly do classroom lectures. This survival stuff... it's all I know."

"That's why it works," Rogue said quietly. "It's real."

A silence settled between them, but not an uncomfortable one.

Finally, she stepped closer to the bed and sat in the chair nearby. "Do you want me to stay?"

He blinked slowly.

Then gave a small nod. "If you're not too freaked out by the Frankenstein cosplay."

"Seen worse," she said, curling her legs up into the chair. "Besides. You've got a way better personality than Frankenstein."

"That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me all year."

She smiled again. "You want me to shut up so you can rest?"

"No," he murmured. "You talk. I'll listen."

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, Marie saw something behind the gruffness. Not just pain. Not just survival.

But trust.

And she stayed.

Then a head popped through it- Bobby's.

He scanned the room like he expected Logan to throw something at him.

"Coast is clear," he whispered behind him. "No claws. No growling. No broken furniture."

Two more heads appeared: Leo and another younger student. Rogue followed behind, arms crossed, brow raised, but not stopping them.

Logan was awake. Propped up against the pillows, bare chest bandaged, left shoulder stitched and bruised. He looked like a train wreck in a hospital blanket.

He also looked grumpy as hell.

"Alright," he grunted. "You've got thirty seconds. If this turns into some group therapy shit, I'm hitting the morphine button."

Bobby entered first, carrying a tray with two terrible cafeteria muffins and a paper cup of black coffee. "We, uh... figured you might want breakfast."

Logan stared at the tray like it personally offended him.

"You think that'll help me recover faster?"

"Hey, it's got blueberries."

"Are you sure?"

"...No."

Logan grunted and reached for the coffee anyway.

Rogue sat back down in the chair beside his bed, arms resting on her knees.

The others lingered awkwardly, shifting on their feet. Finally, Leo stepped forward.

"You scared the hell out of us," he said bluntly.

Logan raised an eyebrow. "That's usually on purpose."

"Yeah, well. This wasn't."

The room was quiet for a beat.

"I thought you were invincible," another kid mumbled.

Logan looked at them- all of them- with something unreadable in his face. Then he sighed, dragging a hand down over his jaw, rough with stubble.

"I'm not," he said. "Never was."

"You act like it."

"Acting tough and being tough ain't the same thing," Logan muttered. "Half the time I'm just tryin' to get through the damn day without snapping somebody's neck."

That got a small laugh, even if they weren't sure he was joking.

"Listen," he said, tone quieter now, "You wanna know the truth?"

They nodded, almost in unison.

"I spent most of my life being told what to kill. Wars, missions, experiments... I wasn't built for classrooms. I wasn't built to teach kids. But I'm here. And if I can help you not end up like me, then maybe that's something worth sticking around for."

No one spoke for a long moment.

Then Bobby placed the tray on Logan's bedside table.

"Well," he said, "Guess we better survive long enough for you to yell at us again."

Logan smirked faintly. "Damn right."

Rogue gave him a small nudge. "You're not getting out of teaching that easy, y'know."

"I got shot twice and blown up."

"Still not an excuse."

He let out a quiet laugh. "Alright, alright. No more near-death this week."

They stayed a while longer. No lectures. No training. Just being there.

Logan didn't say it, but for the first time in a long time, it felt like he wasn't just surviving.

He was part of something.